Page 44 of Tethered In Blood

Next was the cut on my hand. It had stopped bleeding, but the surrounding skin still throbbed, hot and angry. I doused it with the last of my tincture, biting my cheek as the sting shot up my arm. The pain settled into a dull throb as I wrapped a clean strip of linen around each palm and secured the bandage in place.

The linen stretched as I moved my fingers, but it held firm. It had to be enough. Exhaustion tugged at my limbs, dulling my senses. My body begged for rest and food, but there was too much left to do.

I sat back on the bed and flexed my fingers. The ache lingered, a deep, pulsing throb beneath the bandages, but the sharper sting had faded to a more tolerable level.

It was fine.

Iwas fine.

I had to be.

The door slammed open so violently that the walls shuddered. My muscles seized, and a wave of awareness surged through me, but I had no time to flinch before his gaze met mine. Oberon’s eyes blazed like tempered steel. Silver shimmered at the edges of his irises while his stare raked over me, as if noting every inch, wound, and breath. His nostrils flared, but he remained silent. He stood there, staring, his jaw clenched so tightly that it seemed he might break it.

A heavy, ragged exhale tore from his chest. He shut the door with more restraint than he had used to open it, but the tension radiating from him filled every inch of the room. I half-expected him to storm toward me, to lash out at me with whatever had provoked him this time. Instead, he pressed himself against the door as if he needed its solid weight to keep him grounded. His fingers tangled in his hair, his shoulders coiled, and his entire body was wound tight.

The silence stretched, heavy with an unfamiliar tension, until his gravelly voice sliced through it. “Why the hells didn’t you tell me?”

I gathered the scattered bandages and supplies around me, my fingers moving on instinct. I was too tired for this. For him. “Tell you what, Sinclaire?”

His voice was sharper this time, its edges worn. “Valdier.”

I frowned. “Who?”

Oberon pressed his tongue against his canine, angling his jaw. He pushed off the door and stalked toward me.

My breath hitched, my heart raced, and I sprang to my feet before he reached me, squaring my shoulders as if that would make me fiercer.

He stopped just short, close enough to see the tension in his throat when he swallowed. His gaze scanned my face before settling on my jaw. His expression darkened. His voice dropped to a lower, more restrained tone when he spoke again, the quiet tip of a dagger before the strike.

“The knight that left those bruises.”

I blinked at him. The exhaustion in my bones clashed with the irritation sparking in my chest.

Bruises. Right.

I had forgotten.

Lifting my chin, I fought the urge to sigh. “I’m fine.” His jaw twitched, and his hands balled into fists at his sides. “I handled it.” My voice remained steady while I crossed my arms over my chest, dismissing the dull sting from my burned and cut hands. The linen bandages pressed tightly against my skin, but I held my ground. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Oberon’s eyes flashed, a warning before the storm. “Not a big—” He cut himself off, his chest rising and falling in a harsh rhythm. His fingers curled, and his knuckles cracked as if he were restraining himself from breaking something.

Orsomeone.

He stepped closer. “You handled it?” His voice was quieter, but that made it worse. More dangerous. “Is that what you call letting that bastard put his hands on you?”

My irritation flared, burning even hotter than the throbbing in my palms. “I didn’t let him do anything.”

“Then why the fuck am I only hearing about this now?”

“Because it wasn’t your problem.” The words slipped out before I could halt them. Too harsh. Too weary.

Oberon’s eyes narrowed. “Not my problem?” His tone was subdued once more, yet it carried an unmistakable bite. “I am here to ensure your safety. To protect you.”

My jaw muscles tensed, regretting that I had ever spoken. “Iamsafe.”

A flicker of calculation crossed his face, a crack in his rage. He studied me, his searching gaze attempting to unravel every thread I had sewn into place. I hated how easily he could do it. He straightened. “Right,” he said, his expression schooling. “Because you’re always fine. Always handling everything on your own.”

I disliked how he said that, like he was privy to something I wasn’t, as if he saw through me. I refused to let him see more.

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